The Last Legs

The first semester of my sophomore year is on its last legs, and I'm still standing tall and strong. One year ago, I came home from my Thanksgiving holiday and immediately started a countdown to the end of semester. Days, hours, minutes, hours of class, exams, papers. They were, as I remember them, three of the most productive weeks of my academic career. I was a machine, and not in the good way; I was doing my best to forsake emotion, just trying to check things off the countdown and get back home, where I belonged.

I made a mix (something which I am apt to do now and again. Perhaps I'll go into more detail some other time) called "17 Days"; I named it that because I had that many days left when I finished it, but it also happens to be 17 tracks long.

Let Me Go - CAKE
All We Have Is Now - The Flaming Lips
Grace Under Pressure - Elbow
One Hand, One Heart - from West Side Story
Let Go - Frou Frou
New Year's Day - U2
Sounds Of Silence - Simon And Garfunkel
Pale Blue Eyes - The Velvet Underground
Bare Necessities - Baloo, from The Jungle Book
Rocketman - Jon Langford and the Classifieds
Peach Moon - The Unicorns
All The Trees Of The Field Will Clap Their Hands - Sufjan Stevens
Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset - Modest Mouse
Bells Ring - Mazzy Star
Happy Christmas - John Lennon and Yoko Ono
Waiting - CAKE
Over Our Heads - Jon Brion

Even now, 359 days later, this is one of my favorite mixes. It doesn't really matter why. Nobody comes here to read about things like this.

That's more on the subject; the idea of the blog, this blog, and my relationship with it. In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, I found myself slowly burning out on the blog. I was not surprised by this--my past history with blogs follows much the same pattern, though I've never remained interested in one as long as I've remained interested in this one.

I do write here for myself, and not really for any percieved body of fans. Understand that I do appreciate readership, and the showman within me is happier knowing that there are people who swing by the blog just to read what I have to say. But the showmanship is what kills me in the end. I'm a real coward when it comes to expectations, and once I've gotten it into my head that there's someone on the internet who I want to impress, then I begin holding myself to a certain standard. What begins as a standard becomes, in my mind, an outside expectation. Once I feel like I'm expected to do something, I fall apart.

Those of you who know me should know all of this already. This propensity of mine tends to hurt others even more than it hurts me.

Bridget has called it "restlessness". At various times, I've called it "clinical depression", "the void" or sometimes just "boredom", but it isn't something that should be piled onto a single term. It's equal parts impatience, curiosity, greed and thinking too much. Loneliness strikes me in an instant, sometimes as soon as I've closed the door to my room.

But yes, the blog. I enjoy this medium. It is flexible in ways that suit my needs and desires; the inflexibility that has been cramping me over the last month have been self-imposed, and I'm going to try to pick apart every rule I've set for myself regarding Suite 3100. I'm abstaining from theme week, and I encourage the elimination of it altogether. I won't talk myself into posting regularly, or when it isn't a good time. I want to go back to the way things started.

My weekend off allowed my brain the time for a hard restart. My sleep cycle has been demolished, and my eating is still erratic. All of the pigeon-patterns I spent the last three months establishing have been kicked out, burned away in a 5-day plume of marijuana smoke and Mike's Hard Lime. I remember, vaguely, feeling this way a year ago. The world has shifted from day to night, and I am refreshed and ready to fight out the last weeks. I can't quite capture it in words, just yet, but I'll probably stay awake thinking about it.

Perhaps I'm only thinking this way because of the long drive up here. I am now the second owner of an blue minivan which I have named Belinda. Boy has she got a tank on her. I almost made it the whole way without stopping to fill 'er up, but somewhere beyond the Illinois/Kentucky border, when the tank dropped to one bar, I thought of my grandfather rolling in his grave at the sight of such a low tank.

Well, the sleep cycle isn't totally shot, because I'm getting sleepy. Until next time, y'all enjoy every little thing.

-Alan

Homeward Bound

I don't know how many of my readers are users of the Macintosh persuasion (actually, I have a fairly good idea what the number is, give or take two complete strangers who frequent the blog), but there's this nifty little thing called "Dashboard". My freshman year at Wash U was a tumultuous time for me, and I spent many weeks counting down the days, hours, minutes and seconds until I got to leave. It was something of a chore to do all this counting myself, and I kept my eyes peeled for a convenient countdown application which might do the heavy arithmatic for me. Finally, now that I'm well adjusted and happy here, I've found one.



Despite my adjustment, I still very much look forward to going home, for a few reasons : a) I love my family. b) I love my friends. c) I love not having work to do. d) I love my city. Lastly, a very emphatic e) my parents have finally bought a new car for my mother.

She's been steering the same rig around for the better part of a decade, and they finally decided that, now that my sister and I are out of the house, they don't need the same vehicular capacity as they once did. So my father--who loves to buy very expensive things--went out and got her what she wanted; a hybrid sedan. He had been pushing her towards one of the Mazdas with the rotary engine, but she saw through his attempt at vicarious comsumption.

What does this mean for me? It means I get a car to bring back at the end of the break. Sure, it's nearly a decade old. Sure, it's a light blue minivan. And sure, it's creeping up on 200000 miles. But the value of having a car is worth all those hardships. My main mode of transportation, at the moment, is a 1986 model bipedal hominid and, though it has significantly less than 200000 miles on it, I'd be hard pressed to travel far at any significant speed.

So, tomorrow (today, rather), after Russian, then after Fiction Writing (in which I present an outside short story, as well as have my own story workshopped), and then after all the rats and pigeons are tested and fed, I am out like sky camo. Gone with the wind. Shot in a metal tube across the right leg of our nation to the place I have always called home.

I'm surprised to say that I don't know what Alfonzo is doing for break. I know he hates his family and loves solitude, so he's apt to stay here. But he hasn't been talking much since the return of suite 3100's prodigal sons; just kinda sulking and muttering and looking a few shades darker than usual.

Vlad will be staying, for sure, but he'll probably find something very interesting to occupy himself with. That's up to him, of course.

Ahh, well, the bed is calling. Goodnight, all.

-Alan

Sleeping Week

(This post brought to you by a cessation of the continuity of temporality)
So, because "sleeping places" was my idea, and because it's taken about a week and a half for me to get around to posting about it, I'm pulling out the big guns. I realize the risk I run by showing you all my favorite sleeping spots, but I deserve it for being so flaky about the blog.

First, I present, to you, the Ginko Grove (and surrounding area). Gaze upon the camera- phone- captured beauty of Wash U's ginko canopy. Just feet from the world-class Olin Library, the ginko grove provides much needed shade in the Spring and Summer, and spindly stabbers of death in the Fall and Winter. All that aside, the ancient ginko is a proud tree; low to the ground and sturdy, perfect for climbing.

Many of the branches are broad enough and low enough to eliminate the worry of falling while you catch your z's; but, if you do fall, there is always a nice grassy lawn to catch you. Should you decide sleep isn't for you, just scoot on over to Whisper's Cafe and grab an All-Nighter from the coffee bar.
Seriously, when I'm less cynical, I consider these trees, the ground under these trees, and the nearby Ginko Room of Olin, to be some of the best places for a mid-day nap.

Now, last week, I mentioned falling asleep in a secluded, very uncomfortable chair in the basement of Eads. Wash U is filled with these, the most uncom- fortable padded armchairs on the planet. The arms are at exactly the right height to prevent ever finding the right position. Somehow, though, I managed to writhe and twist myself into either (a) a position comfortable enough to elicit sleep or (b) a position that compressed my spine until I lost consciousness; none can say for sure. What's important is that you see the chair, and try to imagine a person horizontally-oriented on it.

Lastly, I give you a tree which I love very dearly. I love it because not everyone can get into this tree, and still fewer can get as high up in it as Bridget and I did. For sleeping purposes, however, you'd do well to focus on the very long branch that occupies the center of the frame. It's very big, and very strong, and probably very bad for your back, but I fell asleep there and I have no regrets. I also like to write in that tree, though never Suite 3100 stuff (sorry). On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you can catch WU Women's rugby practicing, and I've totally got a thing for tough girls.

Anyway, the only thing standing between me and home is a Film Studies paper, so I must away to do that.

Oh, and if any of you are the type who check this site regularly, then I encourage you to forget that this post did not appear until mid-afternoon Saturday.

-Alan

Vertigo / The Farewell

WU folks know that last night was the annual dance party hosted by the engineering school, Vertigo. Excepting those with claustrophobia, I believe a good time was had by all. I, typically, exhibit a certain amount of claustrophobia/misanthropy when I am completely surrounded by people, repeatedly shoved into, and overheated to a rare degree; fortunately, I was able to make a quick trip to Old Navy before arriving at Vertigo so, not only was I not bothered by the blatant violation of fire code, but I danced for nearly twenty minutes in the leather fringe jacket I borrowed from Alfonzo (Alfonzo, you really should have gone. I know how you feel about... well, people, but it was an experience worth having) before deciding I was sweating too much and should put it in the coat room.

Around 4 am, I returned a missed call from Larkin and learned that, apparently, I was in possession of her only lighter. I made my way to her apartment to return it, and finally made it home a little after 5 am. I was awoken by a phone call, in which I learned I had slept until 4:15 PM. Though I missed out on 5 hours during which I planned to be productive, I am more refreshed than I have been in weeks. Sometimes you just need to hard-restart your brain, you know?


Last installment of the Carl, Bridget and Katherine visit : Sunday
We woke a little before noon, knowing that Carl and Katherine should hit the road as soon as possible. We picked Katherine up and went to IHOP for brunch. As much as I enjoyed the part of the weekend where worlds (home and away) collided, there was a certain vibe to our IHOP visit that could not be denied. It lies somewhere between a sinister sense of impending mischief and the knowledge that we were with those who stay with us, always. As an audience, you only ever read about the interesting things that happen; but it is the idle times, the meals and the simple things, that best corroborate my feelings towards my friends. We finished, and Carl and Katherine set out for Atlanta soon after.

The rest of the day went towards work, with intermittent conversation between me and Bridget. Something that Bridget and I didn't learn until the extreme latter-days of our romantic relationship, was the value of just sitting together, reading books or doing homework. I have tried to implement this sort of side-by-side working in my more recent relationships, with some level of success. However, doing it with Bridget created a strange air, like a misplaced bubble in time and temporality. It was strange and good.

That evening, I drove her to the airport and bid her adieu. I felt the quiver of potential tears, but none came. I returned home and began digesting the events of the weekend.


I've still got a lot of work to do tonight, so this is all I've got time to write. I hope I didn't bore you with this account. It was certainly important to me, and the regrettable inference that all blogs draw is that anything interesting to the writer must be interesting to the reader. Again, apologies if you haven't enjoyed yourself.

-Alan

EDIT NOTES : Sorry, Katherine, for getting your name wrong. You understand, right?

Mid-Day Wednesday / All-Day Saturday

My favorite thing about the middle of Wednesday is how it is also the precise middle of my week. Just when I need encouragement the most, I get the dual-goal of completing my longest and most grueling day AND pushing through to the end of the week. Huzzah! Let's move upward and out of this week, leaving only a week and a half until Thanksgiving.

This week has been interesting for my sleep patterns. Sunday and Monday night, I failed to get my 7 hours, and so I required a nap on Monday and Tuesday afternoon. Monday, I attempted to nap on the LabSci quad, but the wind picked up and I got too cold, so I hunted for some sort of padded furniture. I found a forgotten chair in the basement of Eads, twisted and rolled until I found a measurable comfort, and slept for an hour and a half. I though I had set my phone, but did not do so; it was by grace alone that I woke up 12 minutes before my 2 o'clock class. Do you think my professors appreciate that I've only missed one lecture in anything this semester?

Me neither.

Then, yesterday, I decided the time and weather were ripe for tree-climbing. I climbed the same tree that Bridget and I thoroughly explored a few weeks back, read my Fiction Writing homework, and got an opening paragraph on my next story for the same class. I then stretched myself out on the branch and closed my eyes. If not for a phone call from my mother, I would have fallen asleep, which would have been interesting. Anyone ever fallen asleep in a tree? If so, did you fall out?

So, because theme week is kind of a moot point until the missing half of the suite returns, the temporary replacement will be pictures and descriptions of places to fall asleep. Maybe Alfonzo will help me, but I doubt it. Honestly, he's kinda lost it. I'm pretty sure he didn't take any midterms, and he may not even be officially enrolled anymore. And the whole, you know, Kansas thing....


So Saturday
We roused ourselves early enough to get Center Court brunch--a staple in my life last year, now just an occasional cap on nights of extravagance--then went to City Museum. I won't bore you with the details of the visit, because City Museum is a cursed place; it's nearly impossible to do it justice with words, and pictures hardly do the trick. You just have to go. That's the long and short of it. Unless you are fairly overweight, have severe joint problems, are afraid of heights or extremely claustrophobic, you have no excuse for not having gone already. We managed to have a good time, and I don't think anybody got tetanus, though Carl may have caught the clap. You know what they say about Missouri: "There's so much clap it's like a standing ovation".

I couldn't lay hands on tickets to Bauhaus, so we didn't go. We grabbed Carl's guitar and met up with his old friend, Don. I finally got to experience a live Carl and Don performance (sorry, guys, but "Invite Everyone You Know" was of seriously dubious sound quality). The two of them jammed for a few hours, and then we had to leave and hunt for Carl's keys, which he had lost sometime after the CAKE concert. We found them, thank god, in the crack of my armchair.

It may seem natural, to you, that we were all concerned about finding Carl's keys. Given that Carl and Katherine planned to leave Sunday morning in Carl's car, I can understand why one might worry. However, I should make it clear that I was concerned only with the fact that the stuff from Old Navy was locked in the trunk. As it happens, there isn't a very good Old Navy up here, so I much preferred the things Carl brought from Old Navy. (As a side note, apparently one of Carl's things from Old Navy broke recently. The Queen is dead, and she will be missed; she was my favorite one of Carl's fleece jackets from Old Navy).

Then a very strange meeting occurred. Returning from his journalism conference in Kansas City, Brody caught wind of some Old Navy and asked to be included. Carl obliged, and we drove around St. Louis with Brody riding shotgun.

It was certainly a strange feeling, having Brody there amongst such familiar characters. That he rode shotgun only made things stranger; I felt that people who knew Brody better would have taken measures to prevent that.

Don't get me wrong. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary occurred. Everyone in the car had a healthy aversion to Brody by the end of the night, but there was a distinct element of existential fatigue in that aversion. It was as though Brody challenged the fidelity of our reality.

Dropping Brody back at Dauten, Carl and Bridget asked me why we allowed him to come along. I reminded them that we had been to Old Navy for a while before we even came across him, and they understood.

Still, I don't see any Brody/Carl and Bridget reunions happening when we're all home in Atlanta. Besides, he lives way the fuck out in Sandy Springs. Who could possibly like him enough to drive all that way?

One more post on this topic, and then I'm free!

-Alan

Slowly, But Surely

I'm starting to pick up speed. Hopefully, I can wrap up the account of Halloween weekend in one or two more posts. But where was I? Ah, yes.

Friday (continued)
John McCrea is a frighteningly intense man. His presence on stage is, at once, inspiring and disheartening. You could see it in his eyes as he meandered around the stage, whacking the Vibraslap like it had insulted his mother; his eyes, said to clap along and have a good time, while suggesting that we will all, inevitably, clap along with any song we hear, if it's played loud enough. It's clear that he wants us all to enjoy ourselves, and it seems to make him happy that we all support his band, but the reasons behind these things are not what you might initially assume: he wants us to enjoy ourselves because he recognizes the sorrow of life, especially modern life. He is happy to see us support his band, not because it's his band, but because we're all the better for our brief collaboration as an audience. Still, even in the relatively cohesive form of the audience, he still finds cause for disillusionment: commenting on our tendency to be loudest when one half of the audience is pitted against the other, he asked "What demon apes are we?"

In short, if you're a concert-goer, remember that band that you loved and cherished and promised to follow into the smoke and crossfire of the revolution they proffered; then remember seeing that band in concert and realizing that the red streamers over the stage, the strobe lights, the fist lifted in the air during the chorus of the hit single, that all of it was as sincere as the hot dog vendor claiming 100% beef. Take that disillusionment, how you felt realizing that the ideologies you got behind were just Sony Music trying to sell the anarchic adolescent portion of the market; take that feeling, and invert it.

Every impression I had ever gathered about CAKE and McCrea was supported and furthered by this concert. John McCrea is a musician after my own heart, and it was worth every one of those seven hours of driving to see CAKE.

Saturday
We made it back to Wash U around 1:30 A.M. We all collapsed in our respective sleeping locations, with plans to go to City Museum in the afternoon.

Before going to sleep, Carl threw his keys down without noting where they landed.

-Alan

Prostrate

I throw myself upon the mercy of the court. I'm knew I shouldn't have promised anything as rash as more than one post on a weekend. I guess the pressure got to my head; I'm basically working the blog solo, unless you count Carl, and I thought that I could do the work of four people. This weekend has shown that I can't even do the work of one person.

Larkin's party was a success, though I was nervous for a while. Right around midnight, the party was at the point where it could either flop or take off, and then a bunch of people showed up and liftoff! Poor Larkin, though, got ill and retired to her room by 1:30; the party was self-sustaining by that point. I'm not sure who got all of those people out of there when it was time to disperse. For all I know, there are still people there.

But yes, I owe you an account of a brilliantly long road trip, and the concert that made the whole thing worth it.

Friday
I woke up, still feeling the effects of Old Navy, less than two hours after going to bed. I showered, got coffee, and dragged myself across campus to Russian. I thought, surely, I was in for horrible embarassment; but, by the grace of the stoner gods (lowercase g, pagan as they are), that day happened to be one of the three days we used to watch a film. Not wanting to push my luck, I skipped psych and took in another 3 hours of sleep before it came time to get lunch.

Now, Carl lives in Atlanta, but he's about as southern as good grammar and intelligable speech; the man hails from New Jersey, originally. I tell you this (or, rather, remind you, because I think it's been mentioned) to further an argument posed by Alfonzo and supported by me: Chick-Fil-A exists due to the Grace of God. A story which I will not tell, so Carl may tell it, involves a Real Estate agent, a healthy skepticism towards Georgia, and divine providence.

So, as I was saying, the four of us went out to Westfield to obtain some chicken and to tour the mall. They, along with everyone else who has been, has concluded that WfWC is a wholly enjoyable mall, though for reasons no one has been able to name.

Our adventures brought us back to campus, where we picked up Marina and hit the road. Even with my lead foot and Carl's sporty VW, we drove for three and a half hours and arrived with fifteen minutes to spare.

Truman University is in the middle of nowhere. This isn't just "Oh, we're out of the city" middle-of-nowhere, or even "We're in a suburban zone which has no readily distinguishable buildings" kind of middle-of-nowhere. I'm convinced that, like the Isle de Muerta, Kirksville could not be found by those who do not already know where it is; they would unknowingly drive through it, never suspecting that there was a college, nor that CAKE might be playing there.

The opening band was incoherent, but I'm sure that's how John McCrea likes it. One of the CAKE roadies looks like a bizarro McCrea, so Carl and I declared him Don McCrea, John's less cynical and less talented brother. Our position in the crowd was roughly equivalent to a fourth row seat, and our position was a favorable one until the X-heads snuck in and started moshing. The important thing is that we could see the whites of John McCrea's eyes, which he opened as wide as he could, whenever he god-damn felt like it.

I'd tell you what the set-list was, but I'm sure I'd fuck it up and forget something. Carl, I'm passing the buck to you; you predicted every song, anyway.

Oh Christ, folks. It's late. I'm going to wrap this up in another post, tomorrow (read : today, ten hours from now).

Sleep well, everyone.

-Alan

The Rare Weekend Post

Folks and Folkettes, I'm done with my tests and papers for the week, and I have nothing of any concern due until next Thursday. So here's my attempt to make up for the drought during the last 10 days:

First thing is first. Suite 3100 turned 100 yesterday, with Carl's post about "Old Navy" and the items therein. I checked the sitemeter just now, and it's at 700. That means for every post we've put up, an average of 7 people have have looked at the site. Our daily average was stable in the 20's until last week, when the posting rate dropped. But yeah, triple-digits everybody. Let's hear it for everyone involved, and for Carl, who should feel fully inaugurated by the prestigious honor of being 100th. Wahoo!

To celebrate I offer a picture of Rat #71, as taken by my fabulous cameraphone. I don't get to chill with this guy too much, because he's usually in and out of the boxes by the time I come in. We chill when I do my weekend hours, though, and he's well-mannered (As rats go); not like that (rat) bastard, #74.

Right, this is a miniature rant, but more just an expression of disbelief. I was waiting on my appointment in Student Health this morning, and I overheard a conversation between two nurses. Jump ahead five hours to Wal-Mart, when I overhear two cashiers talking about microwavable foods; I don't keep up with popular popular culture, but it is my understanding that some rappers have taken to saying "hur" instead of "here", "thur" instead of "there", etc.... I was under the impression that this was just another moronic fad started by insert rapper of the month, like those god-damned band-aids that people wore under their eyes for three months after the Grammys. However, I have since been informed that the "Ur" phenomenon is, and has been, a part of the accent of lower-middle to lower-class black people in the Midwest (and, incidentally, that wigga girl who works at Ursa's). All this having been said, one of the cashiers at Wal-Mart pronounced "DiGiorno's" as "DiGurno's". That kind of manipulation of the English language is acceptable, even understandable.

This is not : One Nurse commented to the other that the Chicago aquarium is only so interesting, because how many times can you look at the same damn fish. The second nurse responded, "Girl, you got a purnt thur".

I don't care who you are. I don't care what accent you have. I don't even care if you've never pronounced the syllable "Ur" and never will. This is an important lesson for all of you.



Get the purnt? I certainly hope so.

Right, next up....

Ah, yes. Tonight is a party night! Larkin, the self-titled "Mistress of Distress" is throwing a 20th birthday party at her recently annexed apartment in the Greenway Apartments. If you know Larkin, just show up. If you don't know Larkin, find somebody who does and then come. I durn't nur hur lurng I'll bur thur fur, but all great parties depend on good guest turnover rates.

And weed.

Ah, the warm November day calls to me. It's been in the high seventies all week.

I've got two more posts in me, which I'll try to put up this weekend. Still no word from Chaz or Vlad. It's a good thing they're together, or else there might be more cause for concern.

-Alan

The Stars Align, An Active Account

To anyone who comes here to read about my life, I'm really very sorry about the dead air. I'm slowly making my way over this week's hurdles, and I'm almost halfway through the thick of it. Soon, I'll be back to posting qith some regularity, and, hopefull, Chaz and Vlad will be back to make their contributions. Surely, they will have some interesting stories to tell.

Last Wednesday, I set out for the St. Louis Lambert airport to pick up Bridget Lough. Bridget, like myself, is from Atlanta; as a result of this, stood by the wrong terminal for nearly twenty minutes before realizing that she would be flying in from Minnesota, where she goes to school. What's worse, I was waiting for the wrong airline. Her flight was slightly delayed, so none of my mistakes mattered. Still, it's funny the sorts of mistakes an seemingly intelligent mind can make.

We came back to campus and I fed her, then introduced her to the Dauten club. She was well recieved, but overwhelmed by the manner in which the denizens of Dauten interact; the impact of meeting 8 new people in a half-hour period, then trying to understand as many as five conversations occurring simultaneously... I can understand why she was overwhelmed. In fact, seeing my friends as Bridget saw them, that night, made me wonder how I ever managed to not be overwhelmed.

I took her to meet my old RA, Rose. Because Rose was not in her room, we went up onto the roof of Beaumont. We stood up there and talked about my friends, talked about Bridget's girlfriend, talked about Carl, plans for the weekend. As we left the roof, we checked and found Rose in her room. There was a brief introduction and chat, but I needed sleep.

I took her back to the suite, and we had what she called "a sleepover"; I had not thought of it as such until she said this. The sleeping arrangements for the weekend had been a not insignificant source of stress in the weeks prior. We talked until, roughly, 1:30, at which point I fell asleep quietly, albeit uncomfortably, on the floor.

Thursday: Woke up, went to classes, then had Bridget come and visit me at my internship (rats and pigeons. I feel like I've alluded to this before, but I really should post some pictures). Bridget and I have always related to each other through science, both literally and metaphorically. Explaining the details of the experiment to her felt, in many ways, like a rite of passage. Being the pompous ass that I am, there are many areas in which I have felt superior to Bridget; science has never been one of them, and so she occupies a mentor's position in my mind. I was proud, strangely.

We returned to the suite and napped, then went out to climb trees. It feels strange, all of this. Climbing trees had always been one of Bridget's wishes while we were dating, though, to my knowledge, we never did go climbing until now. We scaled a tree which I had been previously afraid to explore. I had a little trouble getting down and thought that I might have to drop, but I worked my way back to a stable position and managed to find my way down (with her guideance, of course. She's something of an authority on climbing trees. It reminds me of stories of my mother as a child; she climbed so incessantly that my grandparents called her "Monk").

From a ginko tree outside the library, I called Carl to ask where in the country he was. "70 miles outside Chattanooga" he told me. I expected him to be much closer, so I asked what took so long. He said "We had to make a stop, first". I asked what for. He said "To purchase marijuana". I asked him if his sister wasn't sitting right next to him, and he said she was.

"Oh...... Excellent."

We dined with Marina, her suitemates, Marion and Patricia, Larkin and her boy, Kay, and a number of other people who arrived on the scene as we ate. The rest of the night was to be spent waiting for Carl. He arrived around 1, and immediately told me I needed to shave. We put Katherine's things in Marina's suite, then the hometown four (Myself, Bridget, Carl and Katherine) took a drive. In the course of this drive, we coined a new euphemism, which I will use for the duration of my account. We checked out the things that Carl got at Old Navy. I opened the Old Navy bag, unzipped one of the things in the bag, then stuffed broken up pieces of something else in the bag into the thing that I pulled out of the thing that I unzipped. God bless Old Navy.

And weed.

Our meanderings took us to a 7-11, where I was the only person to get something. We attempted to find a QuikTrip, but somehow failed to do so. We came back to the suite and talked, then all fell asleep the instant I put "Waking Life" into the DVD player. We woke up at 6 am, and we delivered Katherine to Marina's suite. We returned to the suite so I could get my precious 100 minutes of sleep.

This is the end of the first installment.

-Alan